a fan of quotes, advice, and ramblings?
big on art, writing, and, you know, living?
now you can follow me and all those things here:
The mouth is such a terrible instrument,
such a bloody harmonica,
wailing its complaints,
but it’s the great insulters we remember,
the ones with a vocabulary
of cancer and barbed wire.
“I’m the fucking Jew here,” she would announce,
setting down the dinner plates, smiling like a woman
invited to consume a meal of broken teeth,
and everyone would sigh and shiver
over their spaghetti, and wait for that particular
Russian novel to be over.
They broke the virgin’s plastic nose
with baseball bats
and marked her private parts with orange spray paint
because they loved their mothers so much
it was killing them,
but they left the gaunt, adolescent torso of Jesus
hanging on the wall, untouched
because they didn’t recognize themselves.
And if she was a Brazilian leopard frog she would wrap her impressive
tongue three times around my right thigh and
pummel me lightly against the surface of our pond
and I would know her feelings were sincere.
Instead we sit awhile in silence, until
she remarks that in the relative context of tortoises and iguanas,
human males seem to be actually rather expressive.
And I say that females crocodiles really don’t receive
enough credit for their gentleness.
Then she suggests that it is time for us to go
do something personal, hidden, and human.